I don’t want to live a cautious life. I want to flare. To make shadows the divine can dance through. To embody the longings I was born with. Even if it hurts. Even if I don't make it all the way to shore.
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She will not be summoned by force. That is not how she works. You can only make yourself ready. You sweep the temple, tend the altar, sharpen your blade. You show intent. You work on yourself while she is away—becoming a vessel, a worthy container. You make yourself available. You do the work—not in desperation—but in devotion.
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The paradox of emptiness is that it asks for nothing and gives everything. It doesn’t perform, doesn’t signal. It simply is. And in its presence, something in us lets go of the need to grasp. We remember—somewhere deeper than memory—that we, too, were formed in this kind of dark. That the most essential things begin in quiet.
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Maybe we do not become who we write down. Maybe we become who we choose, moment by moment, breath by breath. A series of imperceptible shifts.
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There may come a time in your life when the old shore seems to have disappeared behind you, and the new shore still remains out of sight. You stand on a bridge—suspended between past and future—and it is one of the loneliest places to be.
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Real self-care—the kind that actually leaves me feeling whole instead of hollow—looks different. It’s not grand or complicated. It’s morning stretches when I’d rather keep scrolling in bed. A 10-minute meditation that forces me to sit with myself instead of running away. An Epsom salt bath that makes my muscles feel like they belong to me again. A nap. A walk. Drinking a full glass of water like my body deserves it.
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My biggest takeaway? Sometimes, the best way to feel more is to do less—to slow down, give the brain a break and let joy return in its own time.
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